


Of a Feather

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Series: Of a Feather [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Reincarnation, Trespasser DLC, Trespasser Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-05-09 20:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5554196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A thousand years ago, Solas knew a woman who helped command his armies, lead the revolution, and stole his heart.<br/>She died.<br/>In the present, Solas knows a woman who can close rifts, lead the Inquisition, and fight with a sword twice her size.<br/>She looks exactly like the woman from a thousand years ago.</p><p>In which reincarnation is tricky business and Solas has yet to really figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I might make this a series depending on reception. Until then, here's a peak.

The staff in front of him was more than a thousand years old.

It didn’t look nearly that ancient. In fact, it looked like it has existed for no more than a dozen years. The oak he collected back when magic poured through the world was as solid as ever, the siding only somewhat notched from the occasional battle. The carvings that ran their way from the bottom of the blade to the dark crystal on top were still easily defined, the wolf chasing a raven easy to make out in the dim lighting. The raven’s feathers at the top looked like he replaced them yesterday, the string binding them strong and steady. If Solas didn’t know better, he would have assumed it was a replica of the staff of time past, an echo.

It was not. It was the genuine article, preserved by Solas’ magic before he ripped the world asunder. He could still remember frantically binding it under one of his bases, keeping the token safe from the prying hands of his enemies. It was only last year, when he stumbled upon it as new as ever, that he realized his bindings actually worked.

Finding it had been both a relief and a painful reminder. The relief from the fact it survived. The pain from the fact that it’s owner was now a thousand of years dead. 

The pain had become sharper lately. The staff was no longer the last sign of his loss. That honor came to the elf who wore the face of a ghost.

Lavellan. Lavellan who currently stood in his doorway. Lavellan who wielded a sword twice her size instead of tendrils of flame. Lavellan who looked exactly like the Lavellan he knew so long ago. Lavellan who remembered nothing of the life she might have lead thousands of years ago.

If the world was punishing him for the destruction he inflicted on the elves, Solas had to admit they couldn’t have chosen a better way to torture him. 

“Solas.” She didn’t have her sword on her, the broadsword likely remaining in her room. Her black hair was hanging down, let loose due to the late hour, and the loose tunic she wore suggested that she was heading to sleep soon enough. “Is it too late for a word?”

Solas shook his head, taking a step away from the staff. He rather wished his small cottage in Haven had more room, if only so he could tuck it away somewhere less visible. “I am alright with a brief discussion. What is it that you wished to speak about?”

“I’m more looking for advice.” Lavellan stepped into his room and Solas found himself transported thousands of years ago when he had come to her for the same thing. Back when he was the general and she one of his devoted followers. It was odd, even if she was not the Lavellan he once knew, how their positions had reversed in this new era. Even if she was not that woman, it was only right to return the favor. 

“I am happy to help. What is troubling you?”

Lavellan sighed, closing the door behind her and taking some steps to the nearest chair. She sat down in it, and rubbed her hand across her face. It made Solas’ stomach churn to see the white scar-like Vallaslin in the candle light. Did she have any idea what they meant? What they meant to him? What they might have meant to her, all those years ago?

You know of the two suggestions on how to close the Breach, right?”

It was odd, seeing her so unsure. Both now and then, she detested visible weakness from herself. For her to be this rattled, something truly terrible had to be bothering her. “Yes. Cassandra told me of your two suggestions. They have suggested you form an alliance with the Templars or the Mages.”

“Yes. That is the gist of it.” She cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I’m torn on who to choose.”

That was a surprise. Solas had assumed she would pick the mages. Why would she not? Lavellan had always been in favor of the rights of mages-

He stopped that thought in his tracks. Lavellan, the Lavellan from his time, had pushed for the rights of mages. This Lavellan could be an entirely different story. She had no magical talent. She had no reason to understand the plight of mages. She had not been taught the world of spirits outside of the Chantry’s rhetoric. For all Solas knew, she could think mages as dangerous as the templars who roamed the Hitherlands.

“Explain,” he said, deciding that more words would only get him in trouble. Lavellan sighed, plucking at the buttons on her tunic. 

“Normally, I would decide to recruit the mages.” Noticing mild surprise on Solas’ face, she spoke some more. “I have never liked Templars for the way they hunted our clans Keepers, and I am loathe to side with them now.  But-”

“But?”

“The Templars are up to something,” Lavellan said, looking up at him, her gaze meeting his own. “You saw the Lord Seeker; there is more going on there than a simple spat against the Chantry. And the fact that the Order has been silent in all this chaos all the more worrying.”

Her line of thinking clicked in Solas’ head. “You think the Templar's responsible?” 

“I think them too suspicious to overlook.” She frowned. “The mages are a valuable asset, but joining them means missing out on whatever leads we have in the Templar order. And while sealing the Breach is important, I would like to do so and have the ability to find those who caused it in the first place.” 

Solas stared at her. This line of thought...it was that of a General, not a Dalish elf pulled into a mess she couldn’t control. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought himself back in the era of old, talking to Lavellan before they set out to free another slave encampment. He would argue for ideals when it came to their moves, while she would argue to be practical. It was what made them a good pair; she always was able to balance him. 

Maybe that was why the world had fallen apart after her death. Without her to advise him, Solas had taken his ideals to the limit and broken the world in the process.

“Solas?” He snapped out of his line of thought. Lavellan was still looking at him. “What do you think?”

Solas took a deep breath, grounding himself in the present. This was not Lavellan, his general. This was the Herald, who looked like her and possibly nothing more. If he wanted to help clean up the mistake he made, he would have to do it as Solas the apostate, not Fen’Harel the rebel God. 

“I think your idea is wise, though I would not tell Cassandra and Cullen your suspicions of Templar involvement.”

She smiled. “I didn’t plan on it. Not until I can prove it at the least.” She stood up, tucking her hair back behind her ears. “Thank you for your advice, Solas. It is greatly appreciated.” 

“I am happy to assist, Herald.”

Lavellan rolled her eyes. “Don’t call me that. Last thing I need is that name spreading. Call me Rissa.” 

Rissa. It was a different given name than the one Lavellan had sported in the old days. Maybe that would help him separate the two better, to keep himself grounded. To remember that one was dead and gone, and the other unconnected to her corpse. “Very well, Rissa.”

“That’s better.” She headed towards the door and stopped for a moment. Solas followed her gaze towards the staff that was resting in the corner. Lavellan’s staff. “That’s a nice staff. I don’t think I’ve seen you use it in the field.”

“I haven’t,” Solas said, hoping he didn’t sound as tense as he felt. “It belongs to an old friend. It would be disrespectful to use it without their permission.” 

“Too bad.” Solas turned back to Lavellan. She was smiling, that type of smile that was balanced warm and coy. “I’ve always liked ravens. The feathers are a nice touch.” 

_ You thought so too _ , Solas thought before pushing the thought out of his mind. No. She hadn’t. They were not the same woman. It was impossible. He cleared his throat. “I think it is time for me to retire.”

“Same here. Goodnight Solas.”

And with that she was gone, headed towards her own cabin, her own quarters. Solas walked up to the staff when he was sure she was long gone and reached up to run his pointer finger down one of the raven feathers. Under his touch, it felt warm.

“Is it her,” he whispered. “Or am I fooling myself over a time long gone?”

The sound of a raven flapping its wings outside was his only answer. 


	2. Who Lives, Who Dies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A temple brings up bad memories for Solas.

In the world of old, she died by the very element she commanded.

Solas was not there to see her actual demise, arriving an hour too late. The mission he sent her on was suppose to be simple, a talk with Mythal on reform, a meeting between the rebellion and one of the few Evanuris looking for change. With the full guard of their own and Mythal, Solas expected her to be back before nightfall. 

He was wrong. The guard of Mythal was left wanting against the betrayal of the Evanuris. The guard of the rebellion sold their fellow commander to slaughter. And by failing to see either of those betrays as a possibility, Solas had lead Lavellan to her death.

According to those he found still alive at the temple, she refused to scream even as they burned her alive.

The scorch mark where she perished was still visible centuries later, Solas thought as he passed through one of the rooms that used to be Mythal’s throne. It was smaller now, only a dot on the floor, but the very sight of it was enough to send his stomach turning. How long had he spent kneeling there when he found the spot, back when her ashes still littered the floor? How long had he lingered as he pieced back the broken remains of her staff from splinters? How little time had it taken the spark for vengeance in his heart to flare into a fire big enough to burn his people down?

“Solas,” Lavellan called from the stairs. Her greatsword was in her hands, ready for the fight ahead, and for a second, Solas could mistake it for the staff she once carried. Her vallaslin were almost entirely hidden by the smears of blood on her face. “We have to go! The well!”

Solas ran to where she was standing. Their guide was unlocking the first door in front of them, and his slow hands did nothing to help the visible tension that flooded the party. Lavellan stared at him when he reached the top of the steps, her eyes as insightful as they were a thousand years ago, and Solas couldn’t help his surprise when she rested one hand on his arm.

“Are you alright?”

The softness to her voice threw him off guard. Rarely did Lavellan slip outside her battle persona in the field, preferring to stick to the role of general less be targeted for weakness. To see her let her true self through was unnerving. 

_ You cannot blend duty and emotion _ , the memory of another Lavellan whispered at him from an era long gone.  _ It will lead you to death every time. _

The scorch mark on the floor was a reminder enough of what happened the last time he didn't heed her advice. 

“I am fine. Just unnerved,” Solas said. Lavellan dropped her hand from his arm, satisfied with his response, and Solas watched as the face of a general once again took over her features. The door in front of them began to open, slow as its guard, and Solas cleared his throat before speaking once more. “Be careful.”

Since finding Lavellan, Solas often thought he was repeating history. Their rise as a revolution. Their fight against a corrupt leader. Their relationship. All were echoes of a time long gone.

Taking a step into the next room, Solas found himself praying that history would not repeat itself once more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the fuck do you get reincarnated anyway?
> 
> Mythal has ideas.

She found the her during the rise of Andraste. 

It was not on purpose. She did not expect any others from her era to still reside in the natural world, except for Fen’Harel who was deep into his slumber. Since residing with human’s, she’d taken to keeping out of human affairs, only getting involved when it suited her or the destiny soon to come. Andraste was not her affair, she would be a creature of human legacies, but she lingered near the rebellion, if only to ensure success for her people. They knew of her, mostly as a resourceful witch, but in general they kept their distance, understanding her help would be limited at most. 

It was due to this, that she knew the appearance of one of Shartan’s men at her door was a dire matter. 

“Possession,” the man said, half out of breath. “Been ruining the Vint’s forces for weeks, but it’s gone out of control. She’s in one of their castles; it is already burning. Pure metal-”

And before the man could finish the sentence, Mythal was out of the door, headed for the location described.

She knew the castle, as she approached it, the fires climbing high. Property of one of the invaders, terrible man, but not as terrible as the men she once knew. Though, to be fair, any man who could be labeled a slaver was terrible enough to never be labeled as “not as horrid as he could have been.” She doused the flames as she walked into the courtyard, Shartan’s men behind her, and as she took in the piles of burnt corpses, her lips curled. Powerful spirit, whatever this was. More than a rage demon for sure. Either a deal was struck or something else was at play. 

She followed the flames to the great hall, putting them out as she went. They were harder to hold back as she progressed and as she made it to the hall, she instructed the men who came with to wait outside. Whatever waited inside would be dangerous. 

She walked through the doors (more magic than she would like, but to open them was a disaster waiting to happen). Sure enough, inside was the creature she’d been looking for. It wasn’t an abomination, still the form of a young human girl, a former slave by the looks of her robes. But that wasn’t what caught Mythal’s attention. 

The fire behind her was a much bigger concern. 

It was different than the fire outside, something bigger, something more alive. It didn’t move like normal fire, coiling together like flame did when caught in the wind, swirling together in a room with no draft. Every second it seemed to twitch, almost like it had a heartbeat, and Mythal watched as it tried to take form of a sword, a wolf, a raven.

This was no demon. This was something different. 

The fire danced behind the girl, twisting and turning, taking form. Mythal watched it almost stretch to the ceiling, like it was trying to find release. She could hear it whisper, as it curled almost in on itself.  _ No,  _ she thought _ , not whisper. _ What she heard was something different. Something muted. A howl of pain like it was coming from far away. 

The puzzle pieces clicked together in a horrific manner. Mythal had wondered what had become of the ambassador Fen’harel had sent, before the invasion. She thought her burned to ash, body and soul, like the rest.

She’d clearly thought wrong.

Mythal stood up straighter. Tried to make herself look more like she did decades earlier. Someone with the figure of her people instead of this human flesh she was forced to adopt. Searched for the name she only used once, a lifetime ago.

“Rissa,” she said. “It is me. Mythal.”

The girl in front of her froze. She turned to Mythal with slow movements, the fire behind her twisting to linger by the girl’s side. It soon took a form, edges flaring into curves, long tendrils of flame making a face, hair, fingers. A spirit to be seen. 

“Mythal,” the spirit and girl said at once, voice a rasp, like she’d swallowed smoke. “You live.”

Mythal looked over her shoulder. The doors were still closed. It looked as Shartan’s ally had taken her advice to stay back. Good. She could then speak freely. “Yes, I do. And it appears you do as well.” She tilted her head, taking in the figure of flame. It couldn’t hold its shape well, fluctuating every few seconds, like it was wincing in pain. “May I ask why you have spent the last few weeks possessing this creaturing and razing the countryside?” 

The girl, no Rissa, this was Rissa, Rissa as the girl, Rissa as the flame, stared at her. “I-” Both the girl and the spirit flinched. “I don’t….I”

Mythal looked at her closer. This was not the words of a forgotten one, a spirit unanchored without a body. Mythal was able to speak clearly enough and from what she knew of Solas’ handmade Godlings, they should be no different. 

“Something is wrong with you.” She took a step closer. “You should not be like-”

“You!” It was a roar, from both flame and girl. The flames in the room grew higher, licking the ceiling, almost taking the form of snakes as they reached up for the ceiling. Mythal stood, transfixed. The girl was glaring at her, eyes almost black. “You did this!”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Mythal said. She could survive a fight with what was left of Rissa, but it would be a dangerous fight indeed. “I planned no such attack upon my own temple. I would have not been killed if it was my intentioned. Those peace talks were quite real until my former Husband interrupted them-” 

“Not the talks!” The room seemed to yell with the girl and flame. This magic was strong, injured spirit or not. “Me. What I am. You did this to me!” 

Mythal stared at her for a moment before laughing, one of the first true laughs she’d had in years. The fire coiled towards her and she held up a hand. “Child, I do not laugh at your misery, but this is not my doing. You did this to yourself.” The flame drew back. “You drank the blood of Gods, did you not. You became one yourself. And Gods live on.”

“I am no God.” A hiss.

“You’ve raised a countryside in your wrath. I believe it’s fair to claim you’ve achieved some form of Godhood.” 

The flame quivered for a moment and Mythal stepped closer while it seemed content to not roast her alive. Her magic was not as powerful as it used to be, she missed the days where she could use magic with ease, but she managed to peer forward anyway, to see between the ripples of this world and the next. She could see the spirit for who it used to be for a moment, the soul of it, the long curls, the dark skin, the brown eyes, the-

The burns. Burns that she’d seen on souls before. Burns from magic that was used to kill a God when used to competition, to burn the body and soul. 

Elgar’nan. It looked that her husband had met one of them in the temple that night in his slaughter. Only, for Rissa, he hadn’t finished the job.

“Your soul,” she said, somewhat distant, thinking back to blue flame and a man whose very laugh she despise. “He burned it.”

The girl and fire didn’t move. 

Mythal took another step forward, taking her chance. She reached up to rest her hand on the girl’s cheek and felt the damage in the spirit that was possessing her. Oh, Elgar’nan had done his damage, alright. Gone for the part of her soul tied to magic at first, then crept into memory. No wonder the spirit was unstable; thinking likely caused her extreme pain. Pain Mythal was incapable of healing.

“I am sorry,” she said, meaning it. “This is beyond me to fix.” It was not a helpful admission. She looked to the flame and frowned. She could not leave this shadow of a God alone. Even if she sent it out of the girl, she would seek a body all the same, unable to stand being without. And then the body would burn out, unable to stand the pain of a God. Who knew how many she’d already taken and driven to ruin, along with the land around her. Killing her was also an option, but one Mythal loathed to consider. This was Fen’heral’s general. She could prove useful later. Someone would have to reason with the man if Mythal proved correct to how he’d feel about the new world he shaped.  But she would have to be in a shape to reason-

It dawned on Mythal at once. A damaged soul could not be fixed with the materials she had. She could not repair the damage. But she could amputate the wound. After all, memory and magic were elements a soul could live without. 

“Rissa,” Mythal said, tilting the girl’s chin up. “I can help you. But you must trust me.”

The fire flared around the girl, almost touching Mythal, protective. When the girl opened her mouth, it was all the voice of the fire.

“Why should I?”

“Because your work is not yet done.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a raven’s feather, one of the many trinkets she kept on her person. “ Here is what I propose. I seal you away. When the time is right, I let you be reborn into a body that is entirely your own. Without magic or memory, but also without pain.”

The fire did not retreat. “And what use am I without my magic or memory? Your puppet?”

Mythal smiled. Clever girl, for suspecting. And not entirely wrong. She shook her head. 

“Far from it. All I wish from you is to be present and in once piece to meet an old friend of both of ours.” She waved the feather in the air. “Fen’heral will wake up eventually. I feel he will wish to see one of his trusted friends.”

The change was immediate. The fire dove back. The flames vanished from the room that weren’t part of the figure before her. The girl’s eyes grew wide.

“Solas is alive?”

And there is was, the truth to the rumor. Mythal had heard the wolf had found himself a lover in his ranks, but she’d doubted anyone could win the heart of someone so closed off from the world. She was sure his rash actions after the fall of her temple had been due to the treaty being crushed. 

Perhaps, she thought to soon. Maybe it was not only the treaty Fen’heral mourned. Maybe it was the woman he lost to it on his orders as well. 

“Sleeping, but yes.” She gestured to the air. “He will wake up in a new world, a world changed. And he has always been horrid at handling change that was not enacted by his own means. And rash.” She looked at the girl in front of her and smile. “I believe Solas will see the world he has made and wish to destroy it for the world he left behind. I wish to convince him of a different solution. But that requires him to listen. Which I believe you may help with.” She twisted the feather in her hand so it pointed at the girl. “Do we have a deal?”

The fire and the girl looked at her. Blink. And in unison, they finally spoke.

“Yes.”

With that, Mythal plunged the feather into the girl’s chest.

Like the birth of a babe, the rebirth of a God is signaled with a scream. 


End file.
